


Just Got to Get Right Out of Here

by SeaofRhye (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Aziraphale and Crowley are Endgame, Bastardization of History, Freddie Mercury - Freeform, Good Omens Mpreg, Happy Ending, M/M, Mpreg, Neil Gaiman - Freeform, Queen - Freeform, Terry Pratchett - Freeform, implied sexytimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:03:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/SeaofRhye
Summary: What if there was another reason Crowley liked Queen? Something to do with Aziraphale, a tryst in late 1945, and the ensuing creation of a child.I don't know who to apologize to for this story, so I apologize to no one.





	Just Got to Get Right Out of Here

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Просто нужно убраться отсюда](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310175) by [HeathrowLiss (LollyBomb95)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollyBomb95/pseuds/HeathrowLiss)



February 1946, London

Getting a call from Aziraphale a mere three months after their last meeting feels like it’s only been a few days. They can usually go decades, even centuries, without running into each other, so he knows this must be important.

It’s rather grim in London, what with all the post-Blitz rubble where some of his favorite shops and restaurants used to be. He misses Australia already. But Aziraphale insisted on staying to “help out” and even turn his bookshop into a makeshift hostel, the daft do-gooder. Crowley couldn’t see the point--after all, they hadn’t hung around Pompeii or Carthage after what happened, so why start now?

The park is more or less the same. Aziraphale is there on their usual bench, looking as nervous as Crowley’s ever seen him. Must be bad, then. Have they been found out already? Surely no one knows about--

Oh. Oh, yes, that would be it. The night they agreed never to talk about until Doomsday, if then. Someone must have found them out, at least on Aziraphale’s end. Or maybe he went straight to Gabriel and confessed. It was something he would do, damn him.

“All right,” he sighs, sitting down on the bench and bracing himself. “What did they say?”

Aziraphale looks at him in surprise. “What did who say?”

“About us!” Crowley snaps. “When you told them about...y’know. Or did somebody else find out on their own?”

Aziraphale looks positively scandalized--nothing new there, then. “I can assure you I have been extremely discreet, and as far as I know we’re still the only two who know about...that.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, more relieved than he wants to let on. “Well, that’s all right, then.”

“It won’t be for long,” Aziraphale says, and there’s a current of fear in his voice far beyond his usual tentative tremor. “I’m pregnant.”

Crowley stares, then laughs so loud he frightens the ducks. 

“Good one!” he cackles, thumping Aziraphale on the shoulder. “You’re finally developing a sense of humor, angel!”

Aziraphale moves incrementally away from him, massaging his shoulder. 

“It’s not a joke,” he says coldly. “I’d rather it was. But I’m sure. I can sense it.”

Crowley can’t pray--no demon can--but he finds himself earnestly wishing Aziraphale was taking the mick.

“Surely not,” he says after a very awkward pause. “I mean, you’re in a male body just like me. Things don’t work that way.”

“I know that,” Aziraphale says, sounding impatient. “But I was corporalized into a female body years ago, just for a little while, and...it seems I still have at least one working part leftover. The part that can sustain another human, I mean.”

Crowley blesses. 

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he snarls, as though everything that happened between them was entirely the angel’s fault. “Didn’t think it was important, did you? ‘Oh by the way, I might get up the spout if we do this, please go out and buy some of those clever prophylactic devices humans are so fond of?’”

“I didn’t know!” Aziraphale fires back, looking close to tears. “I really had no idea. As far as I can infer, my body considers this a miracle of sorts. And you know how angels are about miracles.”

“...Ah.” 

“Yes. So….”

“Right.” 

(The subtext of this exchange is that there’s no angelic or demonic way of undoing this particular knot.)

“Well, then, what are we going to do?” Crowley says after another painful silence. “Get married? I could finally make a dishonest man of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale scoffs. “I thought maybe I’d go away for a while. Just until things are...over.”

Crowley can’t help another laugh. “What, got an aunt who lives in the country somewhere? Going to study abroad, maybe?”

“I was thinking Zanzibar, actually,” Aziraphale says frostily. “There’s lots of good to be done there, and I can...take precautions.”

“Bit late for that,” Crowley quips before he can stop himself. Not that he usually does.

Aziraphale stands up and adjusts his coat. Crowley can see a slight curve in the angel’s waistline that wasn’t there before.

He reaches out a curious hand to touch it, and in a movement swifter than even his eyes can follow, Aziraphale grips his wrist.

“Don’t.”

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale is hardly intimidating in this form, but every so often--like now--he gets a look in his eye like he’s someone to be reckoned with. 

“I see maternal instinct is already kicking in,” Crowley snarks, dropping his arm. “Well, good luck. I don’t suppose I’ll be needed at any point? Not even when you get a craving for foie gras and crumpets, or whatever you like to eat?”

“No,” Aziraphale replies formally. “I can manage on my own.”

Well, this just won’t do.

Crowley isn’t sure why, but he stands up, grabs Aziraphale by the lapels, and kisses him. He doesn’t hold back and there’s lots of tongue and teeth and the angel is gripping onto him now, as if he never wants to let go--

\--And that’s when Crowley releases him and steps back as if they’ve done nothing more than shake hands.

“Well, best be off, then,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Good luck with everything. Send a box of cigars when the blessed event happens.”

He turns and strides away, very intent on not turning around until he’s out of sight.

***

Crowley took it much the way Aziraphale knew he would. He’s not hurt or surprised at all. 

Well, maybe a little hurt. But not surprised.

There’s nothing more to do now except go home and pack his things. The bookshop is rented all the way through till the end of the century, so that’s no worry. His won’t be the first business to close until the city’s back on its’ feet again. 

The change of scenery, not to mention climate, will be good for him. He’ll be far away from everything that reminds him of Crowley and the demon won’t bother him for a good long while, and--

He brushes off the thoughts that arise after that and closes his suitcase firmly before putting it by the front door with his coat and umbrella. It’s going to rain tomorrow. 

He makes some tea and settles down in his favorite chair. He undoes a few of the buttons on his waistcoat, which has been getting tight. He leaves his hand on his stomach for a few moments, smiling. He can’t sense things like gender or personality, as it’s still very early days, but he likes the new presence. It’s nice not to be alone anymore.

He takes a long sip of tea, purposefully not thinking about how being around Crowley felt the same way.

***

Mid-September of that year, Crowley wakes up one morning to find a single cigar tied with a blue ribbon on his windowsill. 

***

July 13, 1985, London

“Why are we here, again?” Crowley says, looking around at the very crowded pub. It’s not like Aziraphale to choose a place like this to meet, especially after they’ve spent so much time avoiding each other. 

Aziraphale, for his part, won’t take his eyes off the television set perched above the bar. He’s positively enraptured, even though the main event hasn’t started yet.

“I couldn’t get tickets, I’m afraid,” he says by way of explanation. “But this concert, you know, Live Aid they’re calling it, is featuring your favorite band.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows, glancing at the television with new interest. 

“I do like their songs,” he remarks, sipping his drink. “That one about best friends is quite catchy. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’ though, oh my--”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale says, cutting him off. “And that...that’s also why I asked you to meet me here.” He fiddles with the bowl of peanuts nearby. 

“Do you, er….remember 1946?”

“Which part?” Crowley says, implying that he knows exactly what the angel’s asking but won’t be the first to say it. 

Aziraphale gives him a slightly impatient look. “You know very well. The reason I went off to Tanzania.”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley says lightly, as if they’re talking about the weather or politics. “How did that...business work out for you?”

Aziraphale smiles, and it lights up his entire face in a way that Crowley’s never seen before.

“Very well,” he says proudly. “I found a lovely couple and made some...slight adjustments to their memories. Purely for the best, you understand. But he’s their son for all intents and purposes, and they love him very much.”

Crowley takes a big swallow of his drink. “And there were no...complications? No little wings or halos or, Hell forbid, animalistic qualities?”

“Gracious, no!” Aziraphale sounds affronted. “He was perfect. Beautiful.”

Crowley drains the rest of his drink and indicates to the bartender that he wants more--a lot more. 

“And you don’t have--” He makes a complicated gesture in the direction of Aziraphale’s stomach. “Anymore?”

“No,” Aziraphale confirms, going a bit red. “I made some adjustments there as well. Once is quite enough, frankly. I don’t know what makes humans keep going back for more.”

“Well,” Crowley says, grateful to be in familiar territory once again, “I can think of a few reasons.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, and they share a smile, and for a moment it feels like things are back to normal. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, her Majesty QUEEN!”

Both of them turn their full attention to the TV, and Aziraphale tears up when he sees the man who strides out onto the stage first, glorious in white. 

He reaches out a hand towards Crowley, and realizes in that second that he never actually finished his explanation, that Crowley still doesn’t know--

\--only to feel Crowley take his hand, eyes still locked on the screen, looking like he’s just made the connection. 

“Oh, brilliant,” he says softly.

Aziraphale smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Good Omens, Queen and Freddie Mercury very much. This was intended to be pure crack. I hope it succeeded.


End file.
